


The Last Day Of Summer

by kissthemforme



Category: The Cure (Band)
Genre: Please listen to it while reading, inspired by The Last Day Of Summer, it's implied its robert smith at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 00:44:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14780432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissthemforme/pseuds/kissthemforme
Summary: Sometimes fate brings people together when they least expect it.





	The Last Day Of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the song The Last Day Of Summer by The Cure, so please listen to it while reading.  
> Also an fyi, one of Robert Smith's nicknames amongst members of the Cure was Robin. Please keep that in mind while reading.

Road stretches out in front of me, dust flecking my black combat boots. I don’t remember what I’m doing, or why I’m here. I scuff my feet, sending a cloud of dust out in front of me. It floats through the air and sticks to the hairs on my valves. A breeze twirls through the long dry grass on either side of me. Goosebumps cover the backs of my arms. It’s been two weeks since I last saw you. Two weeks since the crying started and hasn’t stopped. I take a step forward, listening to my feet hit the dusty road. You had told me it could last, that one day I’d be safe with you. What happened to those promises?  
Power lines sizzle overhead, mixing with the buzz of flies. I inhale and close my eyes. If I concentrate hard enough I can still smell your tooth paste.  
Not far down a truck is parked on the side of the road. It’s chipped grey-blue paint glistens under the sun. A man is sitting on the hood of the truck. The distance blurs the features of the man. I sniff as I study him and the truck more carefully. I don’t recognize the truck.  
The man waves at me. I blink. He’s wearing a long sleeved black cardigan over a white t-shirt. It’s at least two sizes too big for him. I wave back slowly. He motions for me to come over. Isn’t it too hot to be wearing a cardigan?  
He motions again, so I walk over, my feet kicking at rocks on the road. If you were here, you wouldn’t have wanted me to go alone. ‘It’s dangerous talking to strange people,’ you’d say. ‘I’ll go with you.’ You aren’t here. So I walk.  
The closer I get to the man, the easier I can pick out his features. He’s wearing baggy grey jeans and a pair of black shoes. They’re big looking, the lips reaching his shins. His hair is black and sticks up in every direction. It’s frizzy, almost as if he’d been struck by lightning. His skin looks too pale. He doesn’t say anything, just pats the hood. I pull myself up next to him. I cross my legs, tucking my feet under my thighs. The hood is hot on my bare legs. We sit in silence for a minute. Two minutes. Five minutes.  
“This isn’t your truck.” I say, dragging my fingers across it’s warm, dust covered hood. My finger leaves a trail through the brown dust, exposing a faded blue.  
“No, it’s not.” He says, his voice soft. He has an accent.  
“You’re not from around here.” I state.  
“No, I’m not.”  
“You’re from England, aren’t you.”  
“Yes.”  
I pick at my nails. One of the nails is chipping. I pull at a hangnail. Blood forms under the loose piece of skin. “Why are you here?” I ask.  
His feet swing over the front of the hood. His shoes look like they’re going to fall off. “I needed to get away.” His feet kick back and forth.  
“From what?”  
“The people.”  
He pauses. I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t.  
“Why are you here?” He asks, turning the question on me.  
I think for a second. “To get away.”  
“From what?”  
“I don’t know.”  
We sit in silence, the sun staring down at us. I look at the man again. His lips look too red for his white skin, like after someone’s drank cherry Kool-Aid. A breeze blows between us, rustling his long stuck up hair. The smell of cigarettes and hairspray fills my lungs.  
Overhead the sun is crawling over the sky. I shift my feet out from under me and swing them over the side of the truck. “I should probably go back home.” I whisper, my voice cutting through the silence. I don’t want to go home. I don’t want the tears to start again. I don’t want to be left alone in my own head. I don’t want to have to remember you.  
I slide off the truck. I expect to feel the sting of tears behind my eyes. I don’t.  
The man slides off as well. “Do you live in the town?” He asks. He’s taller than I expected, at least two heads taller than me.  
I nod.  
“I’m headed that way if you’d like a drive.”  
I think for a second. “Ok.”  
I open the dirty blue door and climb into the passenger seat. The inside of the truck smells like cigarettes. A half empty pack is lodged under the emergency break. A dozen or so cassettes are littered around on the floor of the truck.  
The man climbs into the driver's seat, throwing a large black backpack behind him. The bag lands next to a large acoustic guitar. Loose strings hang limply from the pale head. He puts the keys in the ignition and starts the truck. It rumbles to life with a loud clunk. We start off down the road.  
“What's your name?” I ask, trying to diminish your face from behind my forehead.  
“Robin.” He replies, reaching for the cigarette package. Keeping one hand on the wheel, a cigarette firmly between his middle and forefinger, he digs into his pants pocket and pulls out a lighter. His eyes flicking between the road and the cigarette, he lights it and sticks it between his lips. He takes a long inhale, rolls down the window, and exhales a stream of sour smoke.  
“Is that your guitar?” I ask, looking back at the guitar behind his seat.  
“Yes it is.”  
“Are you a musician?”  
He turns down the road, the dust slowly starting to disappear. I feel my throat closing as we get closer to the city.  
“Sort of.” He mutters, his lips closing around the cigarette.  
We drive past the theatre. It’s a small theatre, with only one screening room. On the weekends they play black and white movies. I asked you if we could go sometime. We never did.  
“Where’s your house?”  
I stare ahead. “Past the lights, first left. Fifth house on the right.”  
We stop at the lights, the red circle lit up over us. It flickers to green. The truck makes a clunk and turns towards my street.  
“The brown one.” I say, pointing down the street at my house. He slows the truck to a stop in front of it and switches gears to park.  
“Hold on.” He mutters. I unbuckle my seatbelt. From the pile of cassettes on the floor he pulls out one with a white cover. He hands it to me. “Here.”  
I take it. I don’t have a cassette player. The front is covered in messy, smudged writing. It reads ‘The Last Day Of Summer Demo’. It stare at it. The record store might have a cassette player.  
“Thank you.” I say, and climb out of the truck. The man, Robin, smiles at me and starts the truck. I watch as he drives away. Once he’s out of my vision I head down the street. The record store should still be open. 

When I get the cassette player home, I put the cassette in. I close my eyes and listen. It’s his voice coming through my headphones. It’s sad. Empty. I finish it. I rewind it. The acoustic guitar sounds loud and messy. I close my eyes. It’s like he’s singing to me, telling me secrets for my ears only. I rewind it. 

The next day I go back to the road, hoping to see a blue truck and a man with wild black hair. Nothing.  
I sit down in the middle of the road, tire tracks still ingrained in the dust. I didn’t cry yesterday. I haven’t cried today.  
I press play.


End file.
